This Old House

Something I did for practice one day, and I understand it's a bit confusing, but it all has a basic meaning :)

The house wasn't the same to her anymore.

        The floorboards creaked with agony every time she entered her aged bedroom. The torn, stained drapes over the window that were too thin to cloak anything whispered curses at her in the evenings. She was dead inside.
        Every day, when she stirred up the courage to peel herself off of her old, crusted mattress and stumble throughout the home, she thought of her children. The two girls she had been blessed with were gone, sinking still and pale into murky waters. The harsh currents were, surely even now, still pulling them along and dragging at their dresses. They were drifting away at the same rate death must have taken them. 
        The house was an old cottage built in the 1900’s. A rather cute, stout hovel set aside in a section of the woods closest to the river. The woman and her family had moved in only a handful of years ago, when the home was, even then, in a dusty, aging condition. It was fairly roomy, especially now that her husband had disappeared mysteriously (Was it that he died? She really couldn't remember), and her girls were dead. She was not completely alone, however; sometimes the child-sized dolls in the attic had a tendency to run about. When and how she had acquired them, and whether or not they were real, she did not know.
        The daily routine was easy enough to follow, although it may not have been the healthiest one. The woman was tired and always weeping. She never ate. When she did, she swallowed dry and ended up bringing the food back along her windpipe. She wept some more, and wandered the yard much like a hollow ghoul. And then she would sleep.
        Her own brain tormented her constantly, even while dreaming. The mother’s dreams were always a stale kind of gray, with blurred and faded images of her life floating past her into a thick fog. Always, she would chase them. Always, she would find herself wading into a lake of some sort. And always, she’d catch a glimpse of the silhouettes of two very beautiful young girls giggling and splashing in the light of a sunset. Those were her precious babies, her adored little girls. Suddenly, however, they would disappear, leaving the woman utterly alone. The only thing left was a roaring in her ears much like the sound of a train underwater, and a suffocating feeling of unease. When she looked down (as she often did without any explanation), there was a noose around her neck.
        She would then awaken, crank herself upright, and place ginger, broken feet on the floor. The broken mother often seemed to hear her girls calling her name, but quickly realized they were just the dolls again. Two porcelain imitations of little girls, not much like her deceased children, but oddly familiar, that would address her as Mother, and plead with her to “wake up,” or to ask her to “remember them.
        Sometimes the figurines would get angry when the desolate woman stared blankly at them. The two dolls would slap her, kick her, scream, or beg, and the woman was able to feel everything. It certainly was odd. The lady was sure she knew these apparitions (certainly they must have been apparitions) appearing to her, but they were not her dead children; therefore, they did not make any kind of impact to her damaged mind. She kept them out of focus, like she did everything else, until their random rage subsided and eventually slid away. They seemed to get weaker and weaker with every passing day.
              
        One day, the woman had a dream in which her beloved girls called out to her. She was to join them. And she knew exactly how.
        She maneuvered herself out of bed like any usual morning. This time, however, she possessed a goal. While cleaning out the attic, she had noticed a long section of rope hanging just far enough down from the rafters to reach.
        Slumping down the stairs, rope clutched in a cracked hand, the woman paused to take a bit of notice two broken, childlike dolls lying on the floor. Oddly, it seemed she could see them a bit clearer that day. Both were strewn on the floor, dust-caked dresses tossed about them. They were both dead; tear streams making valleys in the dirt on their pale faces; both clutching a smaller, hand-made doll. Their black, lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling in hopes of a bright wonderland in the afterlife, if one ever even existed for the fragile beings. The woman shuffled on.
        Finally, her time had come. The woman moved her old, brittle bones more vigorously in the few seconds than she had in the years of her later life.
        Her own brain had tormented her constantly, even while dreaming. The mother’s reality suddenly matched her dreams: she looked out of the window to see a sky the color of a stale kind of gray, with blurred and faded images of birds passing by into a thick fog. Beyond that was a lake of some sort. Suddenly, she caught a glimpse of silhouettes of two very beautiful young girls giggling and splashing in the light of a sunset. She knew those were her precious babies, her little girls. Suddenly, however, they disappeared, leaving the woman utterly alone with a rope around the blade of a ceiling fan and a chair beneath her worn feet. The only thing left was a roaring in her ears much like the sound of a train underwater, and a suffocating feeling of unease. When she looked down, there was a noose around her neck.
        As she kicked her wooden chair aside, there was only one thought in her mind: “Mommy’s coming home.”

Author's Note

Might be a bit confusing: the "daughters" that drowned were dolls, and the "dolls" were her actual daughters, and she got them mixed up, and became too attached to the dolls, and her daughters died from sadness and neglect...

Reviews

[MomzillaNC]

A heartbreaking descent into madness and self-fulfilling loss tragedy.